


when you meet a man at midnight, be sure to get his name

by framboise



Series: A Westerosi Halloween [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - 1950s, Avarice, Bad Decisions, Dark, Deal with a Devil, F/M, Marriage, Seduction, Spells & Enchantments, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-07 08:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12229359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: Sansa makes a poorly thought-out, and slightly drunk, midnight wish – a bargain, if you will – and events ensue naturally from there.“I don’t want anything,” she says, in a small voice.“Lies,” he scoffs, not unkindly, “you want pearls, you want a powder-pink car, you want a mink coat for each day of the week, you want diamond parures and ruby earrings and satin shoes, a silly pedigree puppy to follow you around, a mansion so large you get lost in it.”Her tears dry up as he continues; she wouldn’tmindsome of the things he mentions, some of them soundawfullynice…





	when you meet a man at midnight, be sure to get his name

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series of standalone Halloween-themed multipairing stories.
> 
> A dark little tale for Halloween. Sansa is a bit OOC here, I've extrapolated parts of her characterisation from the beginning of the show/books and aged her up to nineteen.
> 
> also if you want visuals for this fic I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/166420590462/sansa-stark-makes-a-poorly-thought-out-and)

 

 

Sansa Stark is standing in a very nice pink taffeta dress on the balcony outside of her parent's New Years Eve party underneath a string of pretty lights, her legs just the tiniest bit unsteady from a few sips of the evening's champagne. It's cold, and she should have brought her shawl but she can't think about silly things like shawls when she has just heard the news straight from her brother's mouth.

Joffrey is to be married – to _Margaery_. And oh, it isn't _fair_! He should have married _Sansa_ , and she is so _angry_ , and tearfully disappointed, that she could _stamp_ her foot, if only it wasn't so unladylike, if only it wouldn't make her look like the child she no longer is, being nineteen now, and _more_ than old enough to be married.

Her parents want her to marry Harrold Hardyng but even though they've said that he's blonde and just as handsome as Joffrey (though how that might be possible, Sansa can't fathom), he isn't as wealthy as Joffrey, as _well-connected_ , as _flush_ ; he won't keep her in the same manner that Joffrey could, at that gorgeous mansion in King's Landing, he can't give her the Baratheon name.

Sansa doesn't want some cast-off from the north, some pale imitation. She doesn't want this _Harrold Hardyng_ , and she won't go back inside the party to be introduced to him, she simply _won't_. He's arriving late because he's just flown in from Paris, her parents had said, looking at her knowingly. _Paris_ , like she should be impressed by that, when Joffrey spent the week in _Milan_. Milan is far more exciting than Paris.

Oh, she is getting her stomach into a such a _twist_ over the news, her face feels quite hot with it. She's being a right little madam, her grandmother would have told her, were she still alive to say it, and Sansa feels tears prick at her eyes at that thought – Sansa was always her grandmother's favourite, and she is _desperately_ sad that she isn't here anymore.

She's been thinking about her grandmother tonight, and the stories she had told her, and that's why she's out here at a few minutes to midnight, why she's carrying a piece of silver cutlery purloined from the parlour and has removed her white glove from her right hand.

Her grandmother had told her stories about the old North: the spirits and folk myths, and the tragic tales of maidens who died waiting for their loves, the serving girls who became queens, and the chivalrous heroes who performed great feats of daring to win their lover's hearts.

She told Sansa too about the Devil, who she called Old Petyr; and even though Sansa's mother had told the old woman off for filling Sansa's head with heathen stories, she always had another tale for her when they met for afternoon tea at the hotel where she lived when she was too old to live alone in a house.

"I've seen him, Old Petyr," her grandmother had said once, "I danced with him at a ball, back when I had red hair just like yours. He didn't look as old as they said he would; he was a good age, around forty, and ever so handsome," her grandmother had sighed at the thought, and fanned her face daintily, before calling for more tea.

"I knew northern girls who asked him for things," she told Sansa another time, "who did _spells_ , and Sansa," she leaned forwards as she said this, so that Sansa caught a wave of the comfortingly familiar smell of talcum powder and toffee sweets, "the spells _always_ came true - a new dress, dancing shoes, a handsome beau – and I was _ever_ so jealous, but I was a wary thing back then. I would try a spell now, but he wouldn't listen to an old fool like me."

"You're not old," Sansa had said, even though she was, but old meant nearly dead, and Sansa had been terrified of her grandmother passing ever since she found out what death was.

"How did they do the spells?" Sansa had asked, twisting back and forth on the plush upholstered seat, an ever curious girl.

"You really want to know?" her grandmother asked, looking closely at her, "You have to promise me you won't try it, Sansa. He isn't there to mess about with, it's dangerous, there's always a cost. You swear?"

"I promise," Sansa had said, fingers crossed behind her back.

And her grandmother had told her, and Sansa had listened very carefully.

And now, seven years later, she's ready to make her own spell.

Sansa checks her gold filigree watch carefully, counting down the minutes and then the seconds. At the strike of midnight, she cuts the salad knife down her bare palm, drawing a thin line of blood, and she shuts her eyes tightly and makes her wish.

Not a moment later, she feels a strange fizzing inside of her, and not just from the champagne; and then there's a great shuddering, like's she's standing on a train platform and the train is moving out; and _something_ is happening.

She flashes open her eyes.

There's nothing there.

She huffs a disappointed sigh, and then shakes her head, what a silly fool. Was she expecting a handsome movie star to waltz out of the night towards her?

"You didn't do it right," a silken voice says from the shadows, and she jolts round to see a man in a very fine suit walk closer, the smoke from his cigarette curling around him moodily.

"What?" she says, forgetting to be polite and say _pardon_ like her mother had taught her.

The man smiles at her, it's a kind smile, a handsome smile, but it doesn't seem to reach his eyes. His hair is dark, with two curious wings of grey above his ears, and he wears a moustache and little beard that makes him look like an old theatre star her mother might have swooned over in her youth but then decided he was too rogue-ish for a proper girl like her to set her heart on.

"The wound wasn’t big enough, see," he says, picking up her hand carefully, and trailing the softest finger down the cut on her palm.

"Were you watching me?"

"Well you were hard to miss, sweetling, you're standing here under this neat spotlight," he says, pointing at the string of lights.

How does he know about spells? She looks at him carefully, and thinks about what her grandmother had said. Is there something different about his eyes, a hidden shimmer?

He submits placidly to her inspection, running his own eyes over her face and her dress and the shoes she's embarrassed about, because she wishes they were a little finer, like the ones Margaery wears, less _dull_.

"Are you him?" she asks.

"Am I who? The Devil?" he laughs, "no, girl, I’m not."

"Well, you look like him," she says, petulantly.

"How would you know?" he asks, delightedly.

"The moustache," she says, "no man would have a moustache like that."

He reaches for her hand again and kisses the back of it, letting his facial hair tickle her skin.

"I’m a man, flesh and blood like you," he murmurs, eyes fixed on hers.

She shivers.

"What did you ask for then?" he says, finally letting go of her hand.

"It’s a secret."

"I’m good at keeping secrets," he says.

"What do you do?"

"I'm in politics."

She smiles politely but sighs inwardly. _Politics_ , how dull, and just when she thought he might be exciting.

"Would you like to see my own scar, it’s larger than yours, more... _gruesome_."

She bites her lip. It's not very proper of her to linger out here with him, but if he's at her parent's party then he must be of the right sort.

"Where is it?"

He draws a finger from the base of his neck to his stomach.

"Oh, I'm not sure that would be proper. To see you without your shirt on," she says, and blushes at the boldness of her own words.

"No, I guess not," he chuckles. "But I can still tell you the story. I should warn you that it's quite tragic though, it has been known to draw a tear to the eye," he touches the corner of her eye ever-so-gently.

"Is it about love?" she asks, and moves closer. He smells of mint and cigarettes, and it's a nice smell.

"Yes, Sansa, it is," he says, and then he begins such an interesting story that she forgets to ask him how he knew her name.

The actual details of the story are a little fuzzy when she tries to remember them afterwards, but maybe that's the champagne. There was a duel in his story, she was sure of it, some grand duel with lots of people watching; a duel...for a woman's hand? Yes, a woman, she is sure of that too, a woman with hair as red as hers. She can't even remember how the story ended, only that he really did get slashed from neck to navel; and that she did cry when he told the ending, and almost hysterically, and then he put a gentle arm around her shoulder and gave her his handkerchief to blot out her tears.

Once her tears have dried, she says that she needs a few more moments of air, and he says that he might see her inside when she comes back in, and she waves him goodbye politely.

She waits there, shivering in the cold night air, looking down at the thin cut on her palm. He was probably right, she thinks, it doesn't look big enough, certainly not as impressive as his own scar sounded. She huffs a sigh and blows the thick waves of her hair away from her face. Time to go and face _Horrid Harrold_.

"There you are darling," her mother says when she sees her, "we've been looking for you," she adds in an airy tone of voice, but Sansa can tell from her eyes that she's disappointed with her.

"We have someone we'd like to introduce to you, darling," her father says, "a Mr Peter Baelish."

The man from outside steps forward with the self-same smile, and her own polite smile quivers slightly.

What was going on?

"He’s rising high in politics now, doing awfully well," her father says, slapping the man jovially on the shoulder. "He'll have a job in the shadow cabinet soon, mark my words."

"Oh, you flatter me, Ned," he says, but he doesn't look away from her, and she feels transfixed by his eyes.

Wasn't there a different man they were going to introduce her to, a...tall man, with...blonde hair? Her head feels fuzzy.

"I know Peter well of course," her mother was saying, "we grew up together at Riverrun."

"You did?" Sansa says, "You've never mentioned him before."

"Of course I have, don't be silly, Sansa."

"Oh, we were thick as thieves," Peter says, and her mother laughs daintily.

Sansa shakes her head, she's being silly.

"I've brought a gift for you, Sansa, I know that it's not nearly your birthday yet, but I simply couldn't help it."

A gift! She clasps her hands in front of her and tries not to look too excited.

"Just a small trinket," he says, and pulls a perfect string of pearls out of his suit pocket, as if he's performing the most marvellous magic trick.

"Oh, they're gorgeous," Sansa says, "I really shouldn't," she murmurs faintly, as he moves behind her and fixes the necklace in place.

" _There_ ," he says, " _now_ you look the part," his fingers brush along each pearl, making Sansa think of an old abacus, and it tickles her skin. "Doesn't she, Caitlin?"

"You look wonderful, darling," she says to her daughter; and then shares a proud, knowing look with her husband.

"I was wondering if I might call on you in a few days time, for a drive into the city," Peter says.

"I'd like that very much," Sansa replies, and finds to her surprise that she really means it.

 

Peter takes her out once or twice a week, always bringing a gift with him for her - a golden filigree bracelet, a jewelled pin, and even a pair of satin shoes that Sansa hides at the back of her wardrobe because she fears there's something improper about a man buying shoes for the woman he's stepping out with.

"You’re from a powerful family, Sansa," he says to her, when she makes a cursory polite attempt to decline his gifts at first, "it’s important that you’re looked after, sweetling, that you look good."

Peter takes her to the most _marvellous_ of places on their dates - afternoon tea at the Ritz; dinner in the tiny Italian bistro where all the theatre stars go; box seats at the opera and at the ballet; secret raucous nightclubs; to the races, where Peter always seems to win, even as the other men in suits around him have terrible luck; to department stores, where he sits quite happily for hours, while she tries on an endless array of dresses and hats and gloves, and then he buys the whole lot of them and they arrive in darling boxes and monogrammed bags the next day.

And the parties they go to! He picks her up in one of his shiny cars almost every night, and has a new dress sent to her the morning of each, whisking her into the city to hobnob with all the great and powerful. He's so _charming_ , Peter, he's everyone's favourite, and she feels quite smug to stand beside him.

He's also terribly witty and knows the most _salacious_ gossip. He'll whisper it to her as she drinks champagne or a cocktail, pointing out the heiress with the drinking habit, the prince who only _dances_ with other men, the woman wearing a wig because she's gone bald, the politician who is juggling three mistresses.

He dances with her too at these parties, he's not the type of man to hide by the refreshment table, and she is ever so glad, because he is the most wonderful of dancers, like Fred Astaire, she heard one old lady sigh.

And he'll _kiss_ her too, in the car once he's driven her back home, or at her front step when he walks her back. He's such a good kisser that she finds it a little overwhelming. He's so _warm_ when he clutches her to him, his lips firm, his tongue positively lewd in her mouth, and she's embarrassed that sometimes she can't help but make little moaning sounds at the way his hands feel her up through her clothes and the suck of his mouth on her neck. Oh, she can be terribly _wanton_ sometimes, but he hasn't done anything _improper_ , he's very respectful and her parents trust him an awful lot.

A few months into their courtship, he does get appointed to a shadow cabinet position in government, just as her father had promised, and she feels terribly proud to be escorted by him to the next party.

Her mood is a little dampened however by the presence of Joffrey and his lovely wife at that particular party, at overhearing him make a rude comment about Sansa, but Peter whispers to her secrets about him that make her laugh and blush.

And then a few weeks later, Peter tells her that Joffrey has had a terrible accident. 

"Are you sad, sweetling? I know you thought you wanted to marry him someday," he asks her, holding her hand in his and stroking the back of it.

She shakes her head, "it's terrible of me but I'm not sad at all," she admits.

"That's my girl," he says and kisses her fondly on her forehead, strokes a finger down her cheek.

And _then_ , Peter's party _wins_ the election and there's a whirlwind of parties and events and dinners; and even though he's busier now, Peter still makes time for her, and never ever forgets to bring her a gift.

 

Six months after they first met, when Sansa is starting to worry ever-so-slightly about the overdue nature of such things, he asks her to marry him.

He's arranged a white-tie dinner and her family are there too, along with everyone who's _anyone_ , and he has the band play her favourite song and then gets on one knee and places the _largest_ diamond she's _ever_ seen on her finger, and she says yes almost before he has finished his sentence and he chuckles at her as if he thinks she is the most charming thing.

Now that they're engaged, it's proper for her to visit his own home, a gorgeous mansion on the other side of the city, with views to die for and so many rooms she had gotten lost the first few visits. He has a large team of staff who are very professional, and so quiet she barely even notices them, and the most fashionable furnishings, the most interesting of mementoes from all his youthful travels.

And now that she visits him in his home they don't have to kiss in his car anymore, they can lie on his sofa and neck there for hours, and in the end it's _her_ that ends up shamelessly pushing his hand underneath her blouse. Oh, he has such _wicked_ hands, and a wicked tongue. She is quite rumpled and flustered once they are done, quite breathless. And the _things_ he says to her when they are occupied in such a manner. Oh, it makes her _squirm_ to remember, blush as red as her hair. She is _quite_ impatient for them to be married, but he has insisted on a few months engagement first, which feels _ever_ so long.

The only frustrating thing about spending so much time at his home is how busy he is, how he can only spend a few hours with her before he's back in his office on the phone or writing letters or jotting down figures in the many account books that he won't let her look at.

He never lets her sit in his office with him either, saying that she'd only be bored, that he was busy _making deals_ so that he could keep her in a manner that was appropriate for her, which she supposes isn't a _terrible_ reason for being parted from his company.

She's sneaked in there a few times, when he's left to answer the door for the postman, or gone to the kitchen to pour himself a drink. His office is very _warm_ , almost like a furnace has been lit somewhere nearby, but the fireplace is always cold and the coals in it never get replaced.

She had mentioned once, when he was asking her what she should like to do with the house when she moved in and became mistress of it, that he might like to get a new electric fireplace put in his office and he had only laughed in response and said that the current fireplace suited him fine, and thanked her for the concern.

 

Soon enough, it's the morning of her wedding, and her mother is helping her into her dress - a _marvel_ of white satin and lace that will make every woman in attendance _green_ with envy - and telling her that's she so proud of her, that Peter is a perfect match.

When her mother leaves her for the bathroom to dab the happy tears away, Sansa looks at herself in the mirror. She really does look very beautiful, and she knows that Peter will look ever so handsome when she walks down the aisle towards him; he has such a wonderful style with his clothes, nothing too flashy and yet the fabrics are still rich with interesting details and hidden glimmers of silk and embroidery.

Sansa isn't a fool. There are things about Peter that don’t seem quite... _right_ , but he isn’t mean, he isn’t nasty, he is _ever_ so _kind_ to her, and _thoughtful_ , he never meets up with her without a gift in his hand, and he can't _bear_ to see her upset. And his _kisses_ -

They were saying he'd be deputy leader soon, and who knows after that? She has truly made the most wonderful of matches, and to think that she might have married Joffrey! She shudders now at the thought.

Peter wants to meet with her before the ceremony, which is dreadfully improper, but she agrees because she thinks he might have another gift for her.

He _does_ have a gift, a necklace of gold with a ruby, red as blood, dangling on its end, which he ties around her neck and hides beneath her dress, his fingers glancing sinfully down her chest as he does so.

But when she looks up at him, watching her almost avariciously, she sees a definite strange shimmer in his eyes, a tiny spark of red in the pupils.

"Sansa," he says, as her heart starts to beat like a galloping horse, "when we first met and I told you I wasn’t _him_ , you know I lied, right? You're a clever girl."

"Yes," she says, her chin quivering but resolute. Of course she knew, she’s not a _fool_.

Rich men who give gifts expect things in return, her mother always told her that, and Sansa has known that she'd have to gift this man with significant things one day, like her virginity, so what does it matter if she might also give him another unseen possession of hers, one that she surely won't miss very much.

"It's important not to get married with secrets between man and wife," he says, with a smile.

His finger brushes against the almost-invisible scar on the palm of her hand.

"It’s not the size of the wound, you see, I _did_ lie about that," he says, "That's the mistake most people make, slashing their skin to bits, but _you_ didn’t, darling girl. It’s the _intent_ that matters. And you were _quite_ intent on getting that rich husband; and who’s richer than I am? You’re very pretty, Sansa, and I’ve wanted a pretty wife with red hair, from an excellent family, for a while, especially one who _desires_ things just as much as I do."

"I don’t want anything," she says, in a small voice.

“Lies,” he scoffs, not unkindly, “you want pearls, you want a powder-pink car, you want a mink coat for each day of the week, you want diamond parures and ruby earrings and satin shoes, a silly pedigree puppy to follow you around, a mansion so large you get lost in it.”

Her tears dry up as he continues; she wouldn't _mind_ some of the things he mentions, some of them sound _awfully_ nice.

"There now," he chucks her under the chin, "there’s my happy, greedy, girl."

She lets him kiss her and can't help but clutch her hands around his neck, shivering at the brush of his moustache, the sharp little bite of his teeth on her lips.

"Who was that other girl you talked about, that night, that girl you duelled over?" she asks, thinking that tonight she shall finally see the scar she's been so terribly curious about.

"I didn’t say it was a girl, did I? Apologies, if I did. It was more a disagreement about _principles_."

Sansa tries very hard not to think about a story from a very old book; about another disagreement; a wounding; a _fall_ , if you will.

The wedding itself is like a dream, a fairytale, and Sansa soaks up the envious looks and the opulent atmosphere.

Afterwards, her new _husband_ carries her over the threshold of her new home and into the bedroom.

He undresses her swiftly, but still carefully, popping open each of the pearl buttons down her nape with his nimble fingers, kneeling down in front of her with dark eyes to lift her skirts and tug her suspenders open with his _teeth_ , plucking her underwear off her as if it is made of air.

He bears her down onto the bed and then turns the light off and undresses himself and comes to join her.

"What do you want?" she finds it in herself to ask, later, between his drugging kisses, his overwhelming attention.

"Everything," he hisses, and she shuts her eyes tightly.

But she doesn't make another wish, a wish that things might be different. She's learned her lesson now.

Besides, he'd say if he knew what she what she was thinking, hasn't she's got _everything_ she truly wished for? and she supposes that he'd be right.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, I'd love to hear what people think!
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset for this fic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/166420590462/sansa-stark-makes-a-poorly-thought-out-and)


End file.
